Pool Hall Junkie
by sugaredkiwi
Summary: Written for fanfic100 on livejournal. Just a little speculation about the pool table Dante keeps in his 'office', and a little introspection, besides. Set postmanga, with Dante not knowing the full truth about his heritage. Spoilers for the manga, kinda


Though he never really cared to show it, Dante was good at quite a few things. Not the least of these happened to be pool, and if times got tough and the money tight (which was more often than he'd like to admit), he wasn't above hustling a bit to make ends meet. He was a perfect candidate for it, too: Who would suspect some young, skinny kid with white hair and a lazy way of moving of being _good_? He looked like a sucker, an easy pay off, and the lazy, cocky grin he'd give when he got challenged did little to change that. He always made sure to miss, one or two times, no matter what set up was being played, just to let his opponents slip into a false sense of security, before whipping the shit out of them and making a killing.

He also made sure to stay out of 'home turf', too. After all, the few he knew that frequented the bars he did would just _know_ he was hiding something, since they saw him so often. So it wasn't really a big deal to trek across the city to some unfamiliar bar and lay his trap. Most of the time they grumbled, but paid up anyway, since no one could discover any method of him cheating. Sometimes things had to be handled a little differently, and they paid before heading off to the emergency room because 'that skinny little cocksucker' had to break a few bones to get his point across.

No one ever said Dante was a _nice_ guy.

But he was good at it, and he probably could have coasted along happily, never having to worry about cash at all, if that was all he did. But the fact was, for Dante, playing pool was just a hobby most of the time. And a way to help pay the bills, if it came down to that. It was the same to him as any of the 'normal' jobs he'd undertaken for the same reasons, and money was just money, in the end. It didn't matter where it came from, as long as he had enough to cover his ass. That was what was important to Dante. Because, really, bullets didn't come cheap, and neither did the upkeep on his shop, his guns, his jacket...Everything associated with the words 'demon hunter'. And he wasn't above committing some petty crimes to keep at it. Because that, out of everything, was what was most important.

And throughout his eighteenth year, that was pretty much how he did things. When the jobs ran dry, when Enzo couldn't be bothered to get off his fat, lazy ass to find him something (like he was being paid to) because they'd hit a jackpot with a big pay off, Dante hustled. Just because Enzo wasted his money away on booze and women and God only knew what else, it didn't mean Dante did. Even with the last big job, right before Dante had realized his twin was very much alive and well, he hadn't wasted the money from it.

Oh, he'd wanted to. He'd wanted to get so blazed out of his mind after that that he couldn't remember his own name. The fact that Vergil had been alive, all that time. That he'd known about Dante, and had lured Dante right into the whole thing...It just ate Dante alive to know that. He'd gone in, shocked to see his own face staring back at him, only to find out it was a monster wearing his brother's face as a mask.

So, instead, he'd horded that money away for the next thing to break down, and hustled. He'd spent weeks away from his shop, only coming back to crash and shower, before heading out again, leaving the city for the first time since he'd come there to find more unsuspecting victims to jerk out of jack, just to put that memory behind him, to not think about the brother he'd longed for for years, and that only wanted the useless thing that hung around his neck.

Perhaps, if he'd bothered to stop and think about it, it was more than just another way to make money. It was a way, subconsciously, for him to prove he _was_ good at something, and that he _could_ screw people over, if it came down to it. That he _could_ be as heartless as his brother had seemed, in the end. What were a few felonies the law would never track him down for, anyway?

Which was why, that particular night like any other, he was leaning against a red-felt pool table in a biker bar a town over, twirling a cue between his fingers, looking bored. In truth, he was on the lookout for something easy that night, since his heart just wasn't in it. And it came in the form of a guy a few inches taller than his own considerable six-foot height, and about a hundred pounds heavier, even if, at his thinest, Dante never weighed less than a hundred and eighty. His hair was greasy, which made Dante inwardly recoil, because, while poor, he was a very clean person. That, and his nose just seemed sharper than most people's, to begin with. He didn't know why, and he didn't care.

When the guy noticed him staring, he snorted (and it sounded phlegmy, which was also gross), crossing his meaty arms over his chest. "What, kid, you think you're gonna make some money here or somethin'? Yer gonna end up somebody's bitch."

A slow grin started across Dante's face, though his narrowing eyes couldn't be seen through the fringe of his white hair. He tossed his head to clear his eyes of it, turning his attention instead to the pool cue he was still toying with, grin becoming a knowing smirk. "Huh. You think so, huh?" A flash of elongated canine was given, though he still didn't glace at the guy. "Wanna try me and find out?"

The guy, which Dante had deemed 'Bubba' in his head, guffawed at that, before slapping the pool table. "Rack 'em. Nine ball. Or ain't yer mama taught you how to play yet?" He wasn't worried, obviously, by Dante's ever-growing grin, revealing that it wasn't just the top canines that were noticably longer than normal.

Dante pushed away from where he was leaning, twirling the pool cue between his fingers like a baton, moving to do just that, before he paused when his hand closed over the rack, and after a quick glance at 'Bubba', tossed it his way, barely giving the man time to catch it.

"Age before beauty, sweetheart."


End file.
